


The One That Got Away

by ODG



Category: The Professionals
Genre: But in the eighties, Crack, Everyone’s plans go horribly wrong, Just assume he’s the Craig-era James Bond, M/M, This was so not what I intended to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 02:23:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10867047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ODG/pseuds/ODG





	The One That Got Away

“Bond. James Bond.”

Only sheer willpower kept Doyle from snorting. He knew that some of his own aliases lacked imagination (Ray Duncan, anyone?) but using your own name in an undercover op? MI6 really were as bright as they were made out to be.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bodie similarly restraining his reaction.

Doyle had known that a joint operation with MI6 was a bad idea. Had even said so to Cowley who had not been amused. Oh, on paper it made sense: CI5 needed Tobias, and MI6 needed the pseudonymous shadowy international figure Tobias was reporting to. (Say what you wanted about CI5, the villains they dealt with were a great deal less pretentious.) CI5 had more than enough evidence against Tobias, but MI6 had insisted Tobias remain free in order to lead them to Mr X. MI6 had information, from sources unknown, that the next rendezvous was at a casino in London, so the rest of the plan was simple: they'd infiltrate, CI5 would capture Tobias, and MI6 would capture Mr X.

Bodie had been delighted. His cover was a high-stakes gambler, and if he had to be undercover, what could be better than getting to gamble and wear an expensively tailored evening wear? Doyle was less pleased with his role. Since he didn't already own a dinner jacket (Cowley: “and there's no sense wasting money hiring one”) he had been assigned the cover of a dealer.

So here they were at the casino, Bodie carefully positioned three seats down from Tobias. All they needed was Mr X to turn up, and they could take Tobias down. Tobias, even in a dinner jacket, was clearly a tough guy: broken nose, an unnecessary amount of muscles, and the edge of a tattoo peeking over his shirt collar. He was also a terrible card player. He'd been losing all night; being arrested, Doyle figured, might actually cheer him up.

Doyle knew of Bond, of course. Any complaints that Cowley might have about Bodie and Doyle's tendency to deviate from instructions were nothing compared to Bond. The incident at the Bolivian embassy must have resulted in a couple of million dollars of property damage alone, and that didn't even get into the diplomatic fracas. The papers had claimed it was a gas explosion; D notice or no D notice, they weren't going to ignore a helicopter crashing into a house in Knightsbridge. Doyle had had the real story from a bird who worked at MI6, and figured that, given Bond still had his job, he had to have compromising photographs of the entire British cabinet.

Bond did look good in formal dress though. Almost as good as Bodie did, not that Doyle'd ever tell Bodie that. He might get the wrong idea. Or the right idea, depending on your point of view. Doyle, whose preferred outfit was jeans and a t-shirt, was beginning to feel slightly resentful that he was the only member of her majesty's government in the room not wearing something from Gieves and Hawkes. In contrast to Bond and Bodie’s elegant tailoring, Doyle's dealer’s outfit was cheap and ill-fitting. Bodie had taken one look at the purple velvet waistcoat and the far too tight black trousers, and pressed his lips together tightly. Doyle knew it had to be bad when even Bodie wasn't willing to make fun of him.

Tobias, bless him, didn't seem to have heard of Bond. He merely gave Bond a brief nod of acknowledgement and then returned to staring at Doyle. His expression was one of reproach. Presumably his cards hadn't gotten any better.

Doyle mustered his professionally obsequious expression and inquired of the new arrival if he would like some cards. Bond ignored him in favour of giving the waitress unnecessarily detailed instructions on how to make a martini.

Tobias’s eyes flickered towards Bond and then returned to his cards. He said something under his breath that might have been “plonker”.

Bond finished with the waitress and turned towards Doyle, sliding him chips. Based on the number of chips, MI6 had more generous expense accounts than CI5 did. Bond glanced at his cards quickly, but his expression didn't give a thing away.

Bodie, seated two to his right, was next, and as Bodie picked up his cards, Bond said, with tones of abject surprise, “well, if isn't Bodie Minor!”

Great. Not only was Bond using his real name, he'd just blown Bodie’s cover. What the hell was Bond playing at?

Bodie was clearly wondering the same thing. “I think you’re under some kind of a misapprehension,” he said in perfect Received Pronunciation.

Anyone else might have been put off by the obvious displeasure. Not Bond. “You don't remember me? You were a couple of years below me at Eton.”

Eton? The thought of Bodie at public school, let alone Eton, was almost enough to make Doyle drop the card he was dealing. Bodie had always led him to believe that his education, at least up until the point he ran away, had taken place at a state school in Liverpool.

“You left midway through the fourth form, as I recall. Your brother claimed you went to Charterhouse.”

Brother? So many questions, and none of them could be asked right now. But the second this assignment was over... Doyle started to calculate which one of the secretaries was most likely to show him Bodie's personnel records.

“I always thought you must have run away. After all, you left the day after...”

Bodie’s whisky suddenly found its way into Bond’s lap.

“Terribly sorry, old chap,” purred Bodie. “Very clumsy of me. You'll be wanting to get yourself cleaned up.” He looked expectantly at Bond.

Which, naturally, was when Mr X sat down at the table.

Not that they knew that he was Mr X at the time. Doyle knew it was dangerous to stereotype, but you expected the leader of a multi-billion dollar crime syndicate to have some panache, not to look like an accountant from Basingstoke. It didn't help that Mr X actually introduced himself as Fred Grimes, an accountant from Basingstoke.

On the plus side, his clothing did make Doyle feel better about his sparkly purple velvet waistcoat.

Fred pushed a chip forward, looked at Doyle with squinted eyes, and said “you're new here.”

Doyle agreed, in a professionally cheery voice, that he was new here.

“You won't last,” predicted Fred. Then he looked over at Bond and asked why his crotch was wet.

Few operatives can maintain their sangfroid under such conditions. Bond was not one of them. “There was an accident,” Bond muttered, glaring at Bodie.

Bodie looked like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

“Aren't you a bit young for that?” asked Fred.

There was a pause, as everyone figured out that Fred had just insulted Bond’s continence.

Tobias was looking a bit happier, but Doyle assumed that was because he'd just won for the first time in ten hands. Or possibly he was enjoying the floor show.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Authenticity had required that Doyle summon one of the thugs in dinner jackets responsible for security.

“Perfectly all right,” lied Bond while glaring at Bodie. “Mr Bodie was a bit clumsy, that's all.”

Security didn't look convinced, but vanished with a promise of new drinks. This seemed unwise to Doyle. Did Bodie really need to be re-armed?

Doyle dealt another round of cards. Bodie won. Bond won. Tobias lost. Fred won. Doyle could tell from Bodie’s and Bond’s body language that they were getting ready for round two. He silently implored the heavens for Mr X to turn up soon. Why was there never a villain around when you actually needed them?

“So, the two of you know each other?” Fred suddenly asked.

“No,” said Bodie at the same time Bond said yes. Not suspicious at all. Doyle could feel a headache coming on.

“We went to public school together,” Bond said in dulcet tones. Doyle deliberately avoided eye contact with Bodie.

“Ohhhh,” said Fred in a way that managed to suggest he knew All About What Went On in public schools. He turned to Tobias. “And what about you?”

Tobias looked confused by the question.

“He has me mistaken with someone else,” Bodie suddenly said. “I most certainly did not go to Eton. Or Charterhouse.”

“Did I say anything about Eton?” asked Bond.

Doyle had had enough. “I'm pretty sure you did. Sir.”

Bond looked up from his cards and looked Doyle up and down. “Now you: you're not a public school type. I imagine you're one of those chaps who left school at 14, and then studied in the school of real life.”

Doyle could have pointed out that he had managed three perfectly good A-levels and a term at art school before he went to Hendon. Instead he just murmured “something like that, sir,” and willed Bond to shut up.

He failed.

“I think I'd be happier with a more experienced dealer. You don't seem to have been doing this long.”

Doyle kept his fake smile plastered on. “Maybe you might like to try Table Eight? Katrina is dealing. She has been working at the Club since it opened.” Which was two years ago, but he assumed Bond didn't know that.

And if Bond left the table, Doyle and Bodie could arrest Tobias and then go home for the evening. Sure, it would wreck a joint operation with MI6 and cause all sorts of interdepartmental strife, but if MI6 really wanted this kind of operation to work, then they shouldn't have sent Bond. Happy with his decision, Doyle turned to Bodie to communicate it through the peculiar ESP that characterized their partnership.

Only to see that Bond had his hand on Bodie’s thigh. Doyle gulped, and mentally rewrote the evening’s report to Cowley.

Bodie glared at Bond, but he didn't remove his hand. “You don't appear to have changed at all since Eton,” Bodie muttered.

“You've gotten a lot more muscular,” replied Bond. He sounded throaty.

Bond was... flirting with Bodie?

“I thought you said you didn't know him,” said Tobias who had finally gotten suspicious.

“I think,” said Fred, making the time-honored hand signals for coitus, “that the two of them may have engaged in some jiggery-pokery in the past.”

Doyle mentally rewrote a bit more of the report.

“There was that time in Jordan,” said Bond with a big smile on his face.

Bodie was staring intently at his cards.

How unprofessional would it be for Doyle to start banging his head against the table?

“I'm not sure I'm comfortable playing at the same table as those two,” said Tobias primly.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Doyle had read Tobias’s file. He was known for sawing people's extremities off. Now was not the time for him to start pretending to be straightlaced.

“Don't worry, you're not his type,” said Bodie helpfully. “He likes them a little more naive.”

Tobias looked like he'd like to saw something off Bodie right now.

Doyle scanned the room on the off chance that someone wearing a nametag that said “Mr X” had just turned up. They hadn't.

“As I recall,” said Bond, “you were hardly a blushing...”

Doyle had known that the replacement drinks were a bad idea.

A bouncer was at the table in under a second. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” said Bodie and Bond.

“Actually,” said Tobias, standing up, “there is. These two thugs are...”

Bodie, Bond, and Fred glared at him in concert. Tobias sat back down.

The evening did not improve. By midnight it became obvious that Mr X was not going to appear. Doyle had stopped surreptitiously looking at his watch and moved on to overtly looking at his watch.

He wasn't the only one. Free had spent the last hour staring at his watch and sighing heavily.

“All things considered,” said Fred, “it's probably time to go.” He stood up and stretched.

“Still, I enjoyed myself.” He looked at Doyle, and pulled a small envelope out of his jacket. “I don't suppose I'll be seeing you again.” He handed the envelope to Doyle. “For your efforts.” He wandered off in the general direction of the exit.

A tip. Well, that was nice, although not nearly as interesting as this evening’s shenanigans between Bodie and Bond.

Talking of which... Doyle shot a meaningful glance at Bodie and then at Tobias. Bodie nodded, stood up, and before Tobias had time to react had Tobias’s hands firmly secured behind his back.

“You can't do this,” Bond and Tobias shouted simultaneously.

“I can and I have,” Bodie replied. “CI5, sunshine. You're nicked.”

“We had an agreement,” Bond said. “We were going to wait until he made contact with Mr X. And now you've...”

Tobias started laughing.

Doyle started to have a sinking feeling in his stomach. He pulled the envelope that Fred had given him out of his jacket pocket and opened it. Inside was a note that said “Better luck next time. Mr X.”

“I think,” he said slowly to Bond, “this is for you.”

Bond took a very cursory look at the note and then sprinted towards the entrance. By the time Bodie and Doyle got there, their pissed off captive between them, they could only hear the sounds of what promised to be a high speed chase. Fellowes, who had been on valet parking duty, was looking bemused.

“He won't catch ‘im,” said Tobias confidently.

“Bond's driving an Aston Martin,” said Fellowes. “And he doesn't seem to worried about the suspension. Or his insurance.”

“Fred’s driving a Lamborghini,” said Tobias. “Faster than an Aston Martin.”

“You haven't driven this Aston Martin,” said Doyle, feeling an irrational need to defend the British auto industry.

“I don’t need to,” said Tobias, who obviously didn’t have the same urge.

“Is his name really Fred?” asked Doyle. None of the questions he really wanted to ask seemed to appropriate at the moment.

“Above my pay grade,” said Tobias. “I suppose you'd best be getting me along to headquarters.”

Bodie and Doyle looked at each other.

“They sure don't ‘ire you lot for your looks do they?” He gave Doyle a long stare. “Or your looks, anyway. Suppose you must be good for something. Right now. You've arrested me, presumably want to talk to me, with or without brief, not that I'm going to tell you anything useful.” There was a long pause. “You do realize it was a set up all along?” He looked at Bodie. “Not that it went precisely as planned. Or at all as planned...”

There was what sounded like a small explosion in the distance.

“Still, I reckon you've gotten a better end of the deal than Fred.” Tobias shook his head. “Fred comes up with an elaborate and extremely well thought out plan, with all contingencies catered for, with one exception: British intelligence being staffed by idiots. No wonder the British Empire no longer exists.”

A louder explosion and what looked like fireworks. And then what sounded like every single emergency vehicle in London converging on the same point.

An extraordinary number of D notices were issued to the papers that evening


End file.
